


no amount of coffee, no amount of wine.

by mydrunkjoey



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Arsenal FC, Borussia Dortmund, Drabble Collection, Fluff, German National Team, M/M, PWP, Real Madrid CF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 18:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydrunkjoey/pseuds/mydrunkjoey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles.</p><p>Chapter 1: Schweinski (G)<br/>Chapter 2: Samisut (G)<br/>Chapter 3: Criska (PG)<br/>Chapter 4: Kagakreutz (PG)<br/>Chapter 5: Pierreus (G)<br/>Chapter 6: Langawa (NC-17)<br/>Chapter 7: Carlamberlain (PG)<br/>Chapter 8: Hubotic (PG)<br/>Chapter 9: Gundogawa (G)<br/>Chapter 10: Nuri/Miki (G)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adult Sleepover: Schweinski

It's the first time since highschool that Bastian is awake past 3am. Work asks little of him, only requires that he participates in his 9 to 5 job, check off tasks on his overtly large task board, and with that, he's capable of going to bed without having nightmares about his boss chewing him up. (Pep isn't the chewing and spitting and yelling type, he's more of the silent treatment and cold stare type. It's as effective as yelling, if not more.)

 

Bastian's reason for being awake at 3am is Lukas.

 

He's stayed up until 2am _thinking_ about Lukas before, and woke up on Tuesday with eyebags that had eyebags, which admittedly was his own fault. To be fair, at least 10% of the fault was on Lukas for sending Bastian charming texts. It's normal to be captivated by: “mein hase,” complete with five kissy face emojis. (It's still not really worth the Tuesday exhaustion however.)

 

Since their first year of highschool, Bastian had been infatuated with Lukas. _Everyone_ loved him, he was handsome and loud and strong and funny and popular-- he was a man's man. In University, it was the same. Everyone still loved him, professors and classmates alike. In turn, everyone loved Bastian by association.

 

They had their fair share of girlfriends, but Bastian's relationships never lasted because of his infatuation with Lukas, and Lukas' relationships never lasted because of his infatuation with Bastian. (Or so Lukas had said, drunk and handsy.) So it had been easy and almost expected that Lukas kissed him on the couch the day of their highschool graduation, lips tasting of apples and whip cream. And as expected, Bastian kissed back.

 

Lukas travels for work a lot. He spends weeks in various countries, utilizing his people skills to complete important deals and transactions. It's a fancy job with fancy pay and a not so fancy requirement to travel every couple of months. At the very least, Bastian is pretty good in dealing with the distance, and the power of technology makes it all a bit easier.

When Lukas _isn't_ travelling however, he's at Bastian's although he rarely stays long. Unlike Bastian, his job is awfully demanding. And after long days, they're usually too exhausted to stay up late, so they make microwaveable pasta and eat dinner in bed. Those are Bastian's favourite moments.

 

This time around, Bastian rubs his eyes at 3:17am and Lukas is lying across him. He's been reminiscing about all the stupid things they have done, for the past hour. (They've done a lot of stupid things.) Lukas is about to go into their University pranks when Bastian abruptly presses his palm against the Poles lips.

“Luki, I love you a lot and I'm glad that we're having this-- adult sleepover date again, and I think that these memories are amusing and nostalgic. But I need to remind you that I have to be up at _7:30am_.” Bastian stresses the last bit. Lukas' expression is unreadable, though Bastian has always been easily distracted by his baby blues.

He keeps his hand there for a little while longer until he feels Lukas' tongue on his palm.

“Luki!--” He jerks his hand away, wipes the wetness on Lukas' white tee, and makes a face. Bastian wills himself to get angry, but Lukas is laughing and God help him, he is gorgeous.

“I'm mad at you,” Bastian tries, ultimately failing because Lukas holds Bastian's hands in his own and kisses him. It's soft and slow, Lukas pressing that same tongue along Bastian's bottom lip. The blankets bunch up as they struggle to tug each other closer, and with the desk lamp dim and a warm yellow, Bastian smiles into the kiss.

“You seem to be okay with my tongue now, Schweini,” Lukas coos.

“That's cause before, you weren't putting your tongue in the right place.” And sleep becomes out of the question.

 

Bastian gets two hours, his eyebags have eyebags, his body is sore all over, his bedsheets are stained, and the lightbulb of his desk lamp is burnt.

 

But Bastian runs his tongue over his lip and tastes apples and whip cream, and it's all worth it.

 


	2. i'll be on your left: Samisut

        There is never enough time, Sami thinks.

        There are never enough moments, never enough chances, and more spaces than desired in between all of them. Sami is never satisfied, because there is only so much happiness he can get from Mesut all pixelated in front of him, untouchable and delayed. Because the more he sees, the more he says, and the more he's reminded of those spaces-- Sami is never satisfied.

 

        Mesut is soft and warm against his chest, his breathing steady, and his fingers brush habitually over Sami's knuckles. He misses the long hair, misses being able to press a palm against Mesut's neck and brush the long strands there. He considers telling Mesut to grow it out again, but Sami tilts his head and admires the way the young man's haircut hides nothing. His ears are adorable.

        Sami is trying his best to treasure the break and gnaws on the inside of his cheek until he forgets about how short it really is. Makes himself bleed a little until he forgets about having to leave Mesut again.

        His cheeks are red and warm, tongue still reminiscing over the last few drops of vodka on Mesut's lips. They don't usually get drunk to this point, Sami shirtless with his hair damp (Mesut knocked the shower knob a few moments ago) and his body laid back in the tub, Mesut with his soaked tee and toned body draped over Sami's. They don't usually get drunk at all, because there is never enough time as it is, and they want to remember everything.

 

        Mesut stirs against his chest, nose bumping lightly over his collarbone with the sweetest of noises. And as drunk as Sami is, he's unable to sleep. (Won't allow himself to sleep.)  
        Mesut strains his neck to glance up, only to pull away to a proper sitting posture. Sami doesn't realize how cold the tub is until Mesut's body is missing. He purses his lips, flips his hands and wraps possessive fingers around Mesut's. His fingers are round and short, and similarly to just about everything else Mesut is and has, Sami finds them adorable.  
        “You look cold,” Mesut murmurs. His eyelids are heavy, and Sami can see the exhaustion in his expression so clearly. He tries his best not to get distracted by his eyes.  
        “I'm cold because I just lost my heat pack.”  
        “Is that what I am? A heat pack?” Mesut is playing, his lips forcing away an impending grin, and Sami doesn't know if it's the alcohol, or if it _is_ the cold, or if it is his stupid desperation, but he shakes his head and rushes his words.  
        “No, no, you're so much more than that. You're--” Mesut kisses him and instead of forgetting, Sami finds one hundred more adjectives to use. Mesut is red and shy when he pulls away. And like it had never happened, minus the way Sami's breathing a little harder, he leans in and presses his forehead against Mesut's. “--You're fireworks in July, and chocolate cake on birthdays, and footballs on the football field, and sunsets on roadtrips-- and everything feels off without you.”  
        Sami doesn't know why at first, but Mesut thumps Sami's chest with a closed fist, and he sighs, melts into the sound of his fingers scratching lightly against the faint hairs on Sami's chest.  
        “Everything feels off without you too.”

 

        They skype after wins, only after wins. They had tried to continue into losses, but the inherent lack of physical company just adds on to the weight. At least with wins, there is little that can bring them down, optimism high, and Mesut's smile so familiar and at home.  
        They skype about the international break, about rooming arrangements and places to go, food to eat, things to do. They skype about how they will most likely be unable to get any of those done, and they always end up being right.

 

        “We can't lie in the tub for the whole day Mes.” It's the most rational thing Sami has said all day. He doesn't necessarily want to be logical and realistic, but Sami feels a chill climb his back and his thighs are falling asleep. Mesut is reluctant to provide that with a reaction before grunting once and grabbing the side of the tub. They climb out, legs shaky (Sami can feel that needle sensation all the way down to his toes) and Mesut hooks the collar of Sami's shirt around Sami's neck.  
        He doesn't move to slip it farther, and instead, tugs at it and brings Sami's lips to his again. It's so possessive and desperate that Sami wants to cry.  
        “We'll have more days like these,” Mesut breathes out-- finally breathes out when the kiss is cut short. Sami slips his arms around Mesut's waist, palms pressing against his back. The moment feels longer than it actually is.

 

        The tub is abandoned in a few minutes, and the buzz in Sami's legs die down even faster. The boring, irrelevant stuff, goes by quickly. Kissing Mesut's jaw and the knuckles on his chubby hands however, those feel like hours.

 

        At one in the morning, the whole national team plan an outing via mass text, and Sami stands a distance away from Mesut when they get there. The club is small and restricted, from what Sami knows, and there are few that come up to them. The purple lights remind him of the hotel floor, and they drink to teamwork and success. They drink a bit more and sit on stools beside each other, laughing together at the weird things that happen, through the perspective of Mats, in Dortmund's locker room. Lukas and Bastian are quick to leave, and Sami watches them, hand tentatively resting on Mesut's knee.  
        Sami spends the whole night on Mesut's left.

 

        They take advantage of the way the team disperses after another round of shots. (Because if Manuel leaves, the party is practically over.) They say little, wave goodbye, grin at Jerome and his drunken couch-based dancing, and take a taxi back to the hotel.  
        The tub is out of the question, though Sami brings it up anyways. Mesut laughs and decides against risking an accidental shower. He brushes his fingers over Sami's knuckles.

 

        Mesut's exhaustion is even more apparent when they get the door locked, and the younger man falls into bed. His hair is messy and Sami can smell alcohol on him.  
        There's a wordless arrangement where Sami is tugging on the blankets and fits himself against Mesut. The blanket is white and gold, and Mesut's expression is unreadable. He pulls the blanket over the both of them, knocks his socked feet with Mesut's, and presses a finger on his chin.  
        Mesut's eyes are soft, dark around the edges, and his lips are slightly parted.

        He's beautiful.

 

        “It isn't so bad.”  
        “Hm?”  
        “It isn't so bad,” Mesut tries again, head tucked against Sami's neck. The pillows smell like vodka and citrus shampoo conditioner. “We have done it so many times before. And it will get easier as time goes by.” Even if Sami doesn't want time to go-- he wants it to stop here with Mesut warm within his arms-- he's oddly relieved.  
        “...I know,” he replies.

        Sami pictures Mesut, older and wiser but adorable still, doing keep ups at thirty. He pictures them living in Madrid, retired and experienced, travelling the world together, Sami always to Mesut's left.

 

        And there is little time to this break, but there is a chance for forever. So Sami takes a deep breath, and he sleeps soundly for the first time in a long while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of cheesy angsty international break feels. :(  
> Thanks to everyone for all the comments + kudos + bookmarks and all! Y'all are amazing. xoxo


	3. Everyone in Between: Criska

Love with your whole heart and life will be rewarding. Love your family, love every stranger you meet, love your neighbour, love your enemy, and love everyone in between.

He does not remember being told to love himself.

*

Cris comes over in the middle of the night, knocks on his door at 3:51am, and his hair is slick. His shirt is visibly wet, and Ricky takes note of the faint drizzle. He’s surprised, of course he is, but they’ve met in similar situations enough times that he steps aside without much of a word. (Ricky had been the one knocking a few months back.) Cris lets out a sigh of relief and Ricky curves his palm around the back of Cris’ neck.

He makes two cups of chamomile tea. Ricky hasn’t been up this late in a long while, and the house is eerily quiet, unnervingly quiet, deathly quiet. Cris seems to like it however, and so they sip in silence.

“Do you want to talk first or sleep first?” Ricky asks– practically whispers– even if there isn’t a single waking soul under the roof, excluding Cris and him. (It’s always just Cris and him.) There’s another long pause, and the rain stills outside the window.  
“Sleep.”  
“Okay.”

*

For the past four years, they had taped themselves to each other. Cris would spill more than just football knowledge, but confessions of worries and desires. Ricky would too, but in smaller quieter amounts. He’s careful about what he says, but sometimes it’s difficult when Cris cups a hand around his and blinks those eyes of his.

Ricky isn’t necessarily a weak person, but he isn’t as strong as he’d like to be either.

*

Cris practically begs Ricky not to give his bed up for him, but Ricky is adamant and purses his lips in a way that acts a little bit like Kryptonite. It’s a little sick, Ricky tells himself, but Cris smiles and rubs a thumb over his cheek and he feels a little less disgusting. Just a little.

“Are you going to read to me?” Cris asks, upper torso propped up with an arm as Ricky fumbles with the side drawers. Raising a brow, Ricky grins.  
“Pick a Testament, I’ll read one of them.”  
“The whole thing?”  
“The whole thing.”  
“New,” Cris murmurs. He yawns and Ricky’s heart swells.

The book feels heavy in his lap, the words heavy on his tongue, and the meaning all distorted and foreign and awkward and wrong. Ricky clears his throat, flips the page, and wills himself to go on. It isn’t always like this, it’s only like this when Cris is around. Speaking of which, Cris is wide-eyed and far from falling asleep. Ricky feels a sigh scratch at his throat, but he swallows it back. Cris doesn’t deserve that behaviour.

“But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” He likes that last bit. Ricky takes a deep breath, peers up, cautious but content. Cris has that look on his face, the face he makes right before a penalty kick, the face he makes when he’s driving, the face he makes when he has to make a decision or three.  
“If you aren’t sleeping, I’m sleeping.” Ricky’s whispering again and he doesn’t know why.  
“I’m sleeping.”  
“Of course you are.”  
“I am,” Cris says though his eyes stay open. In fact, they grow wider a little bit, and Ricky’s stomach churns when Cris rubs a thumb over his cheek for the second time that night. He’s so gentle it hurts.  
“Can I kiss you?” His voice dips low and Ricky nods quicker than he should. (He shouldn’t be nodding at all.)

Cris kisses like he dances, awkward at first, but genuine and a little sweet. Then he gets confident, uses his arms and legs and Ricky’s out of breath. He drowns in the scent of rain and cologne and something else. Sweet, sweet, perfume.

*

Love with your whole heart. Love those who will be the reason for your downfall. Love those who will fall with you. Love everyone in between. Love them all.

For it is  _them_  you must love.  _Them_ you must cherish.  _Them_  you must consider. Love them, and beseech yourself to think of little else.

*

When Ricky wakes up, the city is only starting to come alive. He can hear trucks, can see the orange sky twist into different reds, and the scent of cologne still lingers. His bed is relatively old and experienced enough that they sigh when he turns to his side. (But Ricky doesn’t like change and the old thing does its job.) He turns regardless, comforted by the routine creak.

Cris stirs, long eyelashes shivering until they’re apart and open. His eyes are rich and brown, filled with stories.

“Are you okay?” Cris asks first, as if he wasn’t the one running in the rain at four in the morning, as if he hadn’t teared up when Ricky kissed him back thirty minutes later.  
“I’m good.”  
“Good.”  
“Are  _you_  okay?” He notes the way Cris tenses a little at the question.  
“I’m getting there.” There’s a heaviness in the air that Ricky can’t even begin to describe. He licks his lips however and Cris’ gaze darts down just slightly. It’s a nervous look, a curious look, the same look Cris had made last night. Ricky can describe that at least. He lets the silence sit in between them for awhile until Cris is looking up at him again. A couple more trucks whine outside.  
“You look like you want to say something,” he murmurs.  
“I do.” (Of course he does.) Ricky looks at him, expecting and just the smallest bit curious. He has a few ideas, is pretty sure that what Cris is hoping to say has little to do with breakfast or football or friendship at the very least. “I want last night to happen again. And again. And again. And I want to wake up here each time. I want to be able to look at you from this angle at this time in this bed. I want a lot of things– but at the bottom of it all, I want you.”

And Ricky isn’t necessarily a weak person, but he isn’t as strong as he’d like to be either.

*

There’s a flurry of yelling. “You don’t know what you want,” with “yes I do,” and “no you don’t,” with “yes I do.” There is a repetition of “I want you,” and “you don’t know what you’re saying,” until Ricky is exhausted, until Cris’ eyes are stinging again. It gradually leads to almost whispers, where Cris is cupping Ricky’s cheeks with pleading eyes, with Kryptonite eyes, and knocks his nose against Ricky’s. “Do you want me?” he asks, voice cracking. “No,” Ricky says. The word sounds bitter on his tongue and Cris recoils as if Ricky is scorching hot to the touch.

He feels sick.

He wants Cris to yell at him, to smack that stern expression from his face, to dig deeper and expose him, but he won’t. Ricky knows that he won’t.

So everything starts to turn in slow-motion, and he gets to watch Cris leave the room with those Kryptonite eyes burning. There are a whole slew of sentences that make their way to the edge of his throat, like “I want you but I shouldn’t,” and “I lied because I have to,” and “even if I do, we will not survive.” And maybe the thing that hits harder is “you deserve better.” Maybe.

*

He prays again and again when the house is quiet once more.

“Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” Ricky starts each with that passage, ignores the flames in his lungs, and prays for everything relatively low on his list of important things. He prays for a good meal, good weather, good home, good material things. He says his thanks for everything else.

Ricky can still smell Cris’ cologne on his fingertips, and he rubs and rubs until he can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was written for tumblr user kevinkampl, but i'd been wanting to write a criska drabble as well so voila.  
> i really, really, really, tend to love ex-rm ships, like criska and becksillas and samisut so...
> 
> either way, y'all are amazing and all the recent comments are really appreciated! xo


	4. Miscommunication: Kagakreutz

      Shinji's hands are short, painted with visible veins and round palms. His fingers are square, pads scratchy and dry from all the dirt and concrete and grass they graze. He doesn't like them all that much, but he finds them to be a testament to the past ten years of his life.

      Kevin holds his up and they are long and thin. They're pale and his nails are even more so. Each time their hands brush or squeeze or press onto a cheek, Kevin's are soft and warm. Shinji's are rough and cold. (Years of experience and still, German weather is difficult to adapt to.)

      He rests his palm on Kevin's and Kevin smiles like he usually does after a good win.

      It's contagious and Shinji finds himself grinning back, wanting to say something, wanting to express a whole flurry of things, even if he can't, not properly. Sometimes, he'll get confident enough and try anyways, but their heads are limp and comfortable on the mattress, and their feet are bumping pillows and ankles, and Shinji is shy.

      “You're so small,” he hears, and Shinji understands that because he's heard it a hundred times before.  
      “You're just tall,” he retorts, and Kevin intertwines their fingers. There's a pause, a moment for an inhale, and then a kiss.

 

*

 

      On one hand, Shinji isn't surprised that they kiss. He isn't exactly a stranger to sharing a little bit of intimacy with men, and Kevin has done enough to and with Shinji that his desire is clear. (The teasing, the kisses on the cheek, the hugs tight and flushed close, the whispers, the inside jokes, the difference in Shinji-Kevin and everyone-else-Kevin.)

      On another hand, it doesn't stop the drumming in his chest, or the sweat on his palms, or the gasp on his tongue.

      Like his fingers, Kevin's body is long and thin, pale and warm, soft and familiar. Shinji silently hopes that these finger to body similarities are unique to Kevin, and he smooths his left hand over a bit of exposed stomach to be sure. (And so Shinji isn't painted with veins, nor scratchy, nor rough, nor cold.)

      Kevin kisses him gentle and cradles one hand between Shinji's ear and neck. He runs his free fingers down the front of Shinji's wrinkled tee, meets Shinji's fingers on the way down, and intertwines them again. Soft, warm, pale hands rub Shinji's knuckles and Shinji's right hand nestles itself into Kevin's hair. He takes a deep breath, before they're kissing again. It's less than a minute in, and Shinji feels dizzy, as if the mere taste and smell and touch of Kevin is knocking at every nerve all at once-- an accurate comparison even if it embarrasses him.

      Shinji rolls them over, careful of how close to the edge of the mattress they are, and relocates his propped elbows by Kevin's head. They make no move of going further, no light sexual touches on belts, no kisses trailing lower than Shinji's collar. It's reassuring, and like Shinji's fingers, a testament to their years of friendship-- years of companionship-- years of whatever this is. A testament to “we don't need words to understand each other.”

      “I like you a lot,” Shinji murmurs in breathy Japanese, decides to express all that he wants to express even if the words are not German, even if Kevin cocks his head in confusion. Shinji tucks his head into Kevin's shoulder. “You're an embarrassment sometimes, and you make bad decisions, and you do things that make me furious or worried or both. You have bad hair a lot of the time, and you catch a sunburn better than you can catch a date, and you always breathe really loud. You get jealous really quick, and it would be cute if you weren't so oblivious to how much of a wall you are to other couples. And you tease me to no end.” Shinji pulls back, eyebrows tight and furrowed, lips pursed into the slightest pout. “But most of all, it took you three years to kiss me.”

      He doesn't expect Kevin to get it, but Kevin smiles that smile again. And he probably has no clue, (more than probably, definitely) but he kisses Shinji on cue, and Shinji forgives him-- stupid haircut and all.

 


	5. One more Secret: Pierreus

“ _I’ve got a confession,_  
_I have so much I’d like to say._  
 _and though actions speak loud_  
 _louder than words,_  
 _I’d like to begin this way._

 _I think that you’d like it,_  
_my head in your hands,_  
 _I think that you’d like it,_  
 _my lips on your lips,_  
 _I think that you’d like it,_  
 _my last name with your first,_  
 _I think that you’d like it._  
  
_I think that you’d like me,_  
 _I think that i like you_.”

He’s got his blisters on his hands and his palms are dry and pale. And he’s no Bruno Mars, his voice cracks and he misses a note or three, and the acoustic guitar in his lap looks funny, out of place, like a joke. But he strums that little thing, his eyes solid on Marco’s, and it’s romantic. They grin at each other like they have a secret (although they do, they have all the secrets in the world) and Auba only looks away when the others cheer. Marco’s stick.

They pass the guitar around, Kevin plays an embarrassing rendition of a pop song that was popular a year ago, and Shinji sinks into the couch with an embarrassed smile on his face. Neven strums it quick, mumbles something, and maybe it’s the hair, the clothes, and the personality, but Neven is believable. Everyone cheers and Mats has this look on his face that Marco just can’t quite describe. (A mix of surprise, a mix of amazement, a mix of confusion, a mix of pain.) Lukasz ends it on a happy note, he holds the guitar though he doesn’t play it, and starts up something familiar and easy to chant. It goes from English to German to Polish to a chaotic mess of languages. Everyone laughs, and Marco feels Auba lean into his side.

*

A lot of them leave early. The rest, Lukasz, Kuba, Neven, and Mats, play FIFA until their eyes are sore, Miki and Papa as refs or coaches, it’s hard to tell which. Kevin, Shinji, and Ilkay disappear somewhere upstairs, and Auba, Auba is with him. (”Of course,” Mats had said.) 

They decide not to drink, even though Auba says he’d keep it a secret. (They had enough secrets.) So they bump shoulders and fold their arms over the balcony railing, eyes darting from the moon and back. Then Auba is shifting, moves to stand behind Marco and wraps his arms around Marco’s arms, and practically cages him against the rail. Marco doesn’t contain his laugh, and grins through the kisses placed along his neck. 

“We’re gonna get caught,” Marco murmurs. He ought to be nervous but he doesn’t struggle, doesn’t put up a fight. In fact, he jerks his head, face inches from Auba, and it’s funny, the feeling in his stomach, the cliché butterflies and the sweaty palms and the giddy high school grin, it’s all really funny. He laughs again, and Auba does too, just the two of them practically spooning in broad moonlight. It’s funny.

The moment is cut short when loud banging cheers are heard, and from what Marco can pick out, Papa is picking someone up, and Kuba is laughing harder than he usually does. 

Auba takes a step back and Marco takes advantage of the space, turns to face him, and curls possessive arms around Auba’s neck. He pulls him close and gives him a kiss, soft and steady. It’s not their first, nor their second, nor their tenth, but Marco gets goosebumps nonetheless. Auba tries to return the kiss, and he’s almost successful, but then there’s thudding footsteps and they untangle seamlessly. (They’ve had a lot of experience.)

Papa bursts out onto the balcony, Miki swung over on his shoulders laughing until his eyes are wet. Mats joins them soon after, grapples at the two to get Miki down, and Neven grins from the door. It’s chaotic and loud, and Auba is laughing with his gleaming teeth and his head thrown back.

It’s romantic.


	6. Gimme Once Gimme Twice Tonight: Langawa

Shinji never fails to surprise him, from his incredible football talent, to his favourite foods, to his sensual heat-inducing moans– Shinji is a wonder.

It’s the smile probably, those rows of pearly whites that show whenever something even remotely positive happens. He’s such a happy person that it’s infectious, which says a lot, as Mitch himself is known to be pretty optimistic. That innocent and childlike glee doesn’t prepare him– surprises him really– for the open mouthed kisses and the light scratches on his chest.

~

Shinji almost trips over a sweater on the floor when Mitch starts tugging at Shinji’s jeans. It’s frantic and funny because Mitch is pulling the denim down as he kicks off his own, and there’s a trail of clothes down the hall that they’ll most likely forget until tomorrow afternoon. Now both clad in boxer briefs– Shinji’s a bright pink and Mitch’s a cool black, he slips an arm around Shinji’s waist and pulls him up. And like they’ve done this a million times before (although it’s only been three) Shinji instinctively wraps his limbs around Mitch, arms around his neck, and legs around his waist.

Their kisses are wet and deep, and Mitch finds himself overwhelmed enough that he navigates into the wrong room twice.

Finally stumbling into the bedroom, Mitch presses Shinji into the wall, arms still tight and hot against Shinji’s bare hips. The thud of Shinji’s back makes them laugh into the kiss, and Mitch makes sure to apologize by brushing his lips against every little freckle. They manage to untangle themselves and in another desperate flurry, they kick off their briefs, the two of them grinning as Mitch gets his toes caught.

Shinji is onto him the moment he’s standing straight again, one hand possessive and familiar on Mitch’s cheek and the other snaking down his chest. He drowns himself in another kiss, and thinks that he gets it, understands why there are people who claim that they would kiss forever if they could. Shinji licks the taste of dinner from his tongue, and Mitch feels the hairs on his neck stand when knuckles brush his erection. He doesn’t hold back his gasp.

And then Shinji is sliding to his knees and Mitch can’t even begin to describe how attractive the sight is.

It’s gentle at first, Shinji strokes him slow and languid– sweet enough that it’s almost frustrating, but then Mitch bucks his hips and he seems to get the hint. Except Shinji slides his grip to the base instead,  kisses the tip, and Mitch is red all over.

“Why– do you look adorable like that?” He murmurs it out, barely capable of staying coherent when Shinji lays his tongue flat against the underside of his cock. There’s a grin and Mitch runs through the question again. Only Shinji, only would his boyfriend look cute sucking dick.

Shinji takes Mitch’s length as far as he can go– and aside from the overwhelming pleasure, there’s a spark of relief that runs through his head when Shinji stops halfway before a cough. (It’s a possessive jealous thought, Mitch knows that much.) But Shinji is a fighter, has always been a fighter, and keeps at it, struggles and chokes a little longer as he wraps his lips farther. It’s erotic and adorable and romantic and Mitch can barely understand it.

He can barely contain himself any longer as well.

“Oh jeez– Shinji, up, let me kiss you–” and it’s frantic again, desperate because he wants Shinji to feel good too, wants Shinji to come undone with him. So Shinji pulls away with a slick pop, and his lips are shiny with precum, and Mitch tugs him into a kiss. He tries not to think about the taste on his tongue, and shivers as Shinji wraps both arms around his neck once more.

He can feel him hard against his thigh and Mitch is so dizzy with want that he lets out a grunt. Pressing Shinji against the wall once more, he lowers one hand and smooths a palm over the other’s erection (and Shinji moans that pretty moan) before slipping even lower. Mitch feels his way down and rubs a finger over Shinji’s hole causing the smaller man to tense under his grip. He slips one and then two in, kisses Shinji’s neck, and burns every groan and whine into his head.

It’s funny to him because his wrist aches when he slides his digits out, and although he’s reminded of it time and time again, it’s funny that Shinji is so small in comparison. It’s funny that his neck hurts from leaning down time after time. It’s funny and it’s cute and Mitch wouldn’t have it any other way. But his thoughts are put on hold and the smile on his face is kissed and Mitch is focused again. He turns away for a quick moment, rummages through his jeans on the floor for a condom and the bedside drawer for lube. (Shinji watches him, toothy grin and all, patient and sweet looking regardless of their state of debauchery.)

Mitch returns– practically running back as he kisses Shinji against the wall once more. It’s with pure skill and experience that he gets the condom out in record time, slips it on in record time, and applies the lube in record time. His arm returns around Shinji’s waist and everything falls into place again, legs hooked comfortably around Mitch’s back.

He grips the base of his cock with his free hand and angles it before sliding in. And it burns, it’s overwhelming and tight, and Shinji’s head rolls back with a gasp. Nails dig into his back and Mitch steadies himself first, stays still as Shinji adjusts– cheeks flushed and warm. And then Shinji is patting his back, smoothing a palm down in gentle strokes and he takes that as a sign.

He moves slow, eyes stuck on the way Shinji breathes in deeper when he thrusts up. He repeats it for awhile, gaze never faltering until Shinji is smiling and he squints his eyes before knocking his forehead against Mitch’s. His embarrassment is clear and Mitch’s heart swells in adoration.

It’s very like them to smile and chuckle and moan and grunt all the while having sex, and it’s very like Shinji to look as innocent and as naive as he is but roll his hips down to meet the buck of Mitch’s hips. It stays consistent for awhile, and then Mitch feels it in the pit of his stomach, feels his body get hot all over and he quickens his pace. Shinji kisses him again, murmurs Japanese against his lips (he’s beginning to understand them from sheer frequency) and tightens around Mitch’s cock.

Mitch comes when Shinji moans his name, and Shinji comes when Mitch moans his. (It’s romantic.)

Breathing heavy with Shinji’s cum on his chest, Mitch watches the smaller man’s expression. It’s an expression of bliss, pure unadulterated bliss, and it’s overwhelming how much Mitch wants him– not that he doesn’t have him already. Shinji stares at Mitch with a grin of his own and then there’s another kiss, a light peck.

And even with cum on Mitch’s chest and their limbs sweaty and hot to the touch, Shinji is pinching his cheek and calling him “cute,” and it surprises him. (Because Shinji never fails to do so.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was requested by leobittencourt32@tumblr or reummels here!   
> originally i wasn't going to post this here but i was supported to do so, and i'll most likely write more langawa soon. xo
> 
> yet again, thank you for all the comments + kudos!


	7. simple touch: Carlamberlain

Chambo and Jenko struggle to stay friends, to make sure their fingers don't linger too long on the other, to make sure they don't get caught looking at each other's lips. Jenko is especially careful and agrees to take photos with fans only if the fans are ladies-- because god, every guy with an arm around his shoulder makes him think of Chambo-- even if it comes off creepy as hell. ("What would Chambo think?" "Why would it matter what he thinks?" -- there's an inner war in his head.)

 

Chambo is the same, he invites Jenko out loads but it's never the two of them and it's always with the squad. And Jenko's introverted so Chambo knows he'll turn him down, and his chest gets twisted in knots, partly relieved because there's no way he'd be able to pay attention with Jenko red faced and inebriated and his lips so hovering over his ears, but partly upset because of the exact same reasons.

 

~

 

They start tiptoeing around each other and it's obvious enough that the others notice. Jenko does what he does best and closes himself off, sleeps early, wakes up early, disappears somewhere to be alone. Chambo surrounds himself with mates, and they text, just text.

 

It gets to be too much because Jenko can only hold back the need in his chest and gnaw at his nails for so long, so he takes a sick day and he goes to a club where he's certain no one knows his name and he smiles meekly into his drinks. It's the first time he's here alone but he spots a guy who looks so much like Chambo-- or at least, he smiles like Chambo. He tells himself it's enough. it'll be something quick-- something short-- something he won't even remember when he wakes up but it'll feel like a weight's off his chest.

 

But he's wrong and he wakes up with his whole body aching and his head pounding and the familiar body next to him looks foreign and the weight is heavier and he misses Chambo-- god he really fucking does.

 

Chambo rings him up for the first time in a long time, a week after Jenko's lil “incident”-- and Jenko is all numb lipped and barely coherent as they mumble into the phone, almost as if they've lost their juice.

 

Chambo tells him about what he's missed-- the parties, the dumb things Jordan and Matt and the others have done, and he bites his tongue when he considers bantering about the ladies who've hit on him-- because Jenko is chuckling into his ear and the last thing Chambo wants is for Jenko to stop.

 

~

 

They recover.

 

Jenko calls first a couple of times and Chambo doesn't even _try_ to hide his grin the fourth time around. They talk for hours sometimes, Chambo most likely in the pool with the mates, and Jenko at home playing a video game meant for lads probably ten years younger. (Chambo pokes fun about that for awhile, and he only stops when Jenko threatens to never let Chambo back into his place.)

 

Everything feels great for awhile, Chambo's sure that this is just enough. talking to Jenko about Gibbo spitting his vodka tonic at a stranger by accident should be enough. But at 2am, all the unspoken words, or at least most of them, come out. He rings Jenko up, Jenko who sleeps at eight in the fucking evening, picks up regardless. He sounds groggy and barely awake but Chambo is under the covers, eyes tired and heart even more so, and he whispers, asks Jenko if he can come over.

“Now?” Jenko's scratching his face and Chambo can hear his beard rubbing into the mic.

“Now.”

“Shit – my apartment's messy right now.”

“Really? Is that your only concern? Not that it's two in the fucking morning?”

“I'd pick up for you any time mate.” And Jenko sounds so stupidly sincere that Chambo grins easily into his pillow.

 

~

 

Chambo doesn't even try to dress up, he hobbles into his car donned in his grey sweatpants and his grey tee and he feels grey all over-- minus the slightest bit of pink on his cheeks because he hadn't seen Jenko so late in the night in a long time. Jenko with his bedhead and slow blinks. Chambo drives faster.

 

He gets there in record time and he's almost worried Jenko's passed out on him when he knocks for the third time. Jenko answers it with his hand in his hair and a beard that suits him more than Chambo would like to admit.

 

He looks exhausted and he's visibly out of it when he makes Chambo tea because Jenko knows Chambo doesn't care for tea.

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” Jenko sips Chambo's tea and they cross their legs on the couch. Chambo picks at the small seam line and he watches the way Jenko presses his nose against the tip of the cup. “Warms me up,” he says. It's endearing.

 

Chambo doesn't really know where to begin, he shrugs when Jenko asks what's up because it's impossible to word. Or scary. Or a little bit of both. Jenko gets real quiet and he puts the tea down and sticks his fingers into his pyjama bottoms. A few years ago and Chambo would have thought nothing of it, maybe he'd banter him a lil-- make a jerk off motion with his fist-- but tonight Chambo can barely keep Jenko's gaze. His cheeks burn and his mind is reeling with possibilities.

 

Jenko starts instead.

“A few months ago I met a guy.” And the way Jenko says it makes Chambo jerk back up again. He can barely breathe. “And I-- shit shit, I'm too sober for this.” He grabs the tea and sips at it again and Chambo can tell it's scalding hot because Jenko makes a face before setting it down again. He wants to smile at that but his lungs are still weak and still. “Shit I uh-- I met this guy and I think, I kinda, fuck-- I kinda--- I mean yeah, fuck is probably it. I slept with him and like, not like how I sleep with my mum--”

“Shit Jenko-- don't mention your mum.”

“Sorry, I mean like, we had sex I guess.” Jenko's coming out to him, Chambo realizes, and it tells Chambo a lot that his only reaction is pure jealousy.

“You guess?”

“No-- no I know we had sex.” Jenko looks at him like he's expecting some critique, but Chambo only wants to ask why, and it seems to be the right question because Jenko exhales, soft and shaky, his broad shoulders slump and weak.

“He looked-- I like how he looked,” Jenko murmurs out which isn't far from the truth though Chambo doesn't believe it, doesn't bite.

“No fucking way, that can't be it. Not because you're not gay enough or whatever-- but because you'd never go home with someone because of their looks. No, no this guy had something--”

“What, you a guru on gays now?”

“I'm best friends with one so I must know _something_.” Jenko rolls his eyes at that.

 

Jenko finishes the tea and gets up to wash the mug and Chambo has a billion questions. He decides not to give up, he slides next to Jenko again, watches his expression as he scrubs at the porcelain.

“What was it about him? C'mon I won't tease you I swear to god--”

“Fucking hell you're more interested in _him_ than you are in me being gay!”

“Yeah well you're gay, congrats-- but this guy you fucked-- or uh-- you got fucked by--”

“Holy shit Chambo I'm not going to talk about this anymore,” and Jenko is redfaced, visibly embarrassed, but smiling nonetheless.

“Yeah you are, talk to me-- tell me about him. tell me, tell me now.” Chambo adds fire to his words and nudges Jenko senseless, Jenko, soap suds in his fingers, can barely fight back.

“Fucking fuck-- he looked like _you_ , alright?”

 

Chambo thinks he's joking until Jenko makes that expression like he'd scored an own goal or some shit-- like he'd done something serious that he wouldn't be able to take back. And then Jenko is back to scrubbing the mug like it's caked in dirt, and Chambo's throat is dry.

 

“You're so dramatic,” Chambo mumbles, quiet and with the smallest of smiles. And Jenko meets his eyes then, meets them for a second or two before Chambo's overwhelmed with want and the realization that he can _act_ on this want and he's cupping Jenko's face and meeting his lips halfway. The mug sinks into soapy water and Jenko's wet fingers are in Chambo's hair and his lips are on Chambo's lips and this, _this_ is what it feels like to be in love.

“You're so fucking dramatic,” Chambo repeats in between kisses and Jenko doesn't have time to retort, Chambo won't allow for it.

 

They wrestle their way into Jenko's room, and it's actually kinda funny how easy it is to be with Jenko, to really be with him. It's stupid and cliché but Jenko fits against him perfectly, and Chambo doesn't mind the height disadvantage really because his lips are then ever closer to Jenko's neck and the spot near his jaw seems to send _something_ up Jenko's spine.

 

It's fast and desperate because years of want and intense denial packs up a lot, and Jenko shoves them to the bed first – he's the experienced one here, Chambo thinks. (That would've brought an immense amount of jealousy to him a few minutes ago, but now-- now Chambo doesn't think that there's anything hotter.)

 

They scramble out of their clothes and laugh their way through it, Jenko pointing out the funny bird shaped freckle near Chambo's ass and Chambo pointing out the intense tanline on Jenko's inner thigh. but teasing aside, Jenko is beautiful, all smooth skin and long legs and eyes of deep deep brown. And the pause of admiration is taken on Jenko's end too because Chambo is beautiful, his freckles looking like art on dark skin-- better than any Pollock painting Jenko's ever seen-- his stomach is toned and his thighs are thick and soft and he smiles with all his perfect teeth.

 

The silence cuts the moment, but it creates a new one, and Jenko kisses Chambo first this time-- pushes everything into the kiss. (He doesn't cry, but he shivers and Chambo feels it.) They tangle together easily like they've done this a million times before, and Jenko pulls the blanket up and over them.

 

“I hope you washed the sheets since the last time Lloyd threw up on one of the pillows.”

“Your head's on that pillow.”

“I'm going to beat you up Jenko, I swear to god.”

“That's homophobic.”

“My tongue was just in your mouth.”

“Well if you shut up your tongue can be in my mouth again.”

“...You're getting good, you're getting good.”

 

Jenko meets him halfway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An accidental fic that I didn't expect to make so stupidly long, but I made it stupidly long anyways. Dedicated to the lovely neyvenger + lovely hellamadrid on tumblr!
> 
> (Painfully missing this ship.)


	8. something: Hubotic

      “I’m getting married,” Mats says sudden and quiet. And this, this is why he’d asked for Neven’s time, for spaghetti and meatballs and dim restaurant lighting. Because of _her_. But Neven’s a peacekeeper, he tries his best to take everything with a grain of salt, to understand and stay objective, to keep himself cool and collected. (One of them has to be.) Still, this is ridiculous, this dinner, the fact that Neven actually wore a dress shirt, the fact that Mats looks cautious (scared almost) – all of it is ridiculous. He forgets to latch onto his tongue, and says it out loud: “ridiculous.”

      He tosses the napkin onto the table and leans back, runs a hand through his hair and notes how soft it is and how unusual that is, and remembers that right - Neven tried to look good. He feels ridiculous.

      Mats looks baffled, shell shocked, and then angry, furious even.  
      “What the fuck?” Neven has too many witty retorts, too many things he wants to say. He wrings his fingers into his pants and he shrugs, nonchalant and (desperately) uncaring.  
      “Nothing. I mean nothing. I mean this–” he gestures to the space around them, “this–” he gestures again but to the space between them, “this is nothing. We’re nothing.” And maybe it’s a little bit gratifying to see Mats wince a little at that, as if Mats maybe, just maybe, still remembers that they _are_ something. At the very least, they used to be.  
      “I can't believe you’re mad at me for getting married,” Mats starts, scoffs, gaze darting aside like they're used to.  
      “Maybe. Maybe I am.”

      There’s silence because Mats doesn’t have to ask or he doesn’t want to ask, why. He wants to get married, wants to move on with his life, wants to get rid of this - this obvious _something_ between them, Neven knows that much.  
      “Most friends would be excited you know. Happy, even, when their friend gets married.”   
      “We're not friends Mats,” Neven quips in return, “we're not best buds, or one night stands--” he quiets when muttering the latter, “and I'm not happy. I'm not excited. Not even remotely.”   
      “Fuck you,” is about the most coherent reply Mats can muster. A few months back and maybe Neven would've been able to joke with him about that, maybe he would've been able to grin and murmur “if that's what you want,” and laugh at the way Mats kicks him under the table. A few months back, Neven would've kissed Mats on the nose and Mats would've let him. A few months back, Mats and Cathy breaking up would still seem probable and dating Neven, really properly dating Neven, would seem equally so. But now Mats is going to get married and Neven put product in his hair and their expensive pasta is cold and Neven is not cool nor collected.

      Mats is waving down a waiter because that is how they work, they run when problems arise and hope the silence leads to easier days. Neven lets him.

      They split the bill, (trying not to think about what that means) and stumble out the door with their hands shoved stubbornly in their pockets. Neven can taste the heartache, the salt on his tongue, the burn in his throat, he can taste it with every open-mouthed breath he takes. All the while Mats is frustratingly handsome, constantly and obliviously so with his eyes cast down and his lips comfortably parted as they make their way to the car. (Because yes, Neven drove, and yes he put on cologne and he dressed to the nines and he overstepped himself, he really did.)

      Neven doesn't start the car. He slips in the keys and he puts on his seatbelt, but he sits facing the window opposite Mats' direction. Their in sync breathing is the only audible sound present, that and the quiet whistles of the wind.

      “If we're not friends, what are we?” Like a repeat of yesterday, of Mats approaching Neven first with a pasta invitation, Mats is breaking the ice. (Or he's treading on it very lightly.) And like yesterday, Neven is still quick to entertain him, head turned back towards the scruffy haired German.  
      “What do you want us to be?”  
      “Don't ask me that. That's not fair.”  
      “That _is_ fair. Do you want to know what's not fair?” Mats doesn't even try to protest, even with the pause he's given, and Neven feels the slightest bit thankful for that. “ _This_ . This dinner isn't fair. This whole thing, how you asked me to go have spaghetti, how you laughed when I said I'd pick you up, how you dressed up and I dressed up, and how you made it like – like things were going to be the way they used to be.”  
      “I didn't mean it like that,” Mats bites back, visibly exasperated.   
      “But you knew that I might take it that way. You know exactly how I feel, about you, about this sort of intimate outing, and about us. You know how I feel because you feel the same way about me, and _I_ know that.” He doesn't want to lecture, doesn't want to turn this into another month-old fight that will reduce them to solemn high fives and grunts of response, but his mouth keeps moving and the words are pouring and Mats has this look on his face like he wants Neven to keep going. Like deep down, Mats just wants to say the same thing back. “It's not fair that you get to sit here with me, looking broken and attractive, and then marry someone else later in the year. It's not fair that--” And then Mats is crashing their lips together, and their teeth knock. It hurts and Mats pulls away for a moment because of it, but Neven is curling him back again, arms pulling and grabbing and dragging.

      There're fingers in his hair and Mats is unfastening the seatbelt and taking its place. Their ears ring with the sound of wet lips and broken moans, limbs knocking the edges of Neven's car. And somewhere in between all of the chaos, Nevens fingers get damp and his cheeks get damp, and his suit is messy and ruined. Somewhere between all of the chaos is, “I'm sorry,” and “I'm not fair,” and “don't come,” and Neven gets it. “Don't come to the wedding,” he thinks, “don't make me choose, don't make it hard for me, for you, (for her,) for us.” Neven gets it.   
      “Okay,” is all he says back, “okay, okay, okay.” He repeats it like a mantra, swallows back the heavy weights in his throat.   
      “We are friends,” Mats murmurs, “friends, we are friends,” he continues, burning these words onto Neven's lips and friendship, Neven thinks, had never felt so much like heartache before Mats. Kisses, never felt so bitter before Mats. Selfishness, selfishness to stumble into the wedding and grab Mats by the hand and marry him himself, never felt so tempting before Mats.

      'Nothing' never felt so much like 'something,' before Mats.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it takes me like 5000000 yrs to update, but here's another add-on to these drabbles!   
> this particular drabble was written for koponya's belated birthday and it's my first time writing hubotic and i hope this wasn't completely horrendous!
> 
> xo


	9. Onigiri: Gundogawa

Rice, vinegar, pickled plums, and seaweed, the only ingredients required to make the perfect rice ball. Vinegar to give a subtle saltiness on the rice, a pickled plum as a sweet and sour filling, and seaweed to wrap and add that additional crunch.

 

The perfect riceball.

 

It's an “onigiri”, Shinji tells him. Ilkay pulls the word out of his tongue and it's sloppy enough that Shinji's grin sticks for a good minute. He repeats it with a slower pace, and his friend-- best friend-- partner and lover-- laughs.

 

Shinji's countertop is squeaky clean, shiny enough that Ilkay has to ask before they start pouring the cooked rice out. The nail on his thumb is long and the soft grains nudge their way in making uncomfortable homes. He groans about the mess, rolls up his sleeve reluctantly, and Shinji bumps his hip with a strict expression on his face. (An expression that breaks quickly after because that's how Shinji is.)

 

They spend two minutes playing around in the sink, Shinji flicking water his direction, and Ilkay squirting a large amount of dish soap on his boyfriend's palms and wrists. Shinji curses at him in Japanese, and Ilkay returns the favour in German.

 

The first step is crucial, Shinji tells him, strict expression back on his face. Not too much vinegar, not too little vinegar, and Ilkay is determined to do everything properly. Not only because they'll have to eat it later, nor the fact that he wants to impress his boyfriend, but that's becauses that's how the two of them are, determined and passionate, constantly striving to make the most of their situation. It's an oddly serious thing to think about while staring at Shinji's veiny fingers slip pickled plums inside snowballs of cooked rice-- but it's good, Ilkay thinks, to be consistent in everything that you do.

 

Shinji is a great teacher, he's gentle, warm, patient, and he leads in a way that destroys any feeling of inferiority or lack of power. Ilkay's not a hopeless sod but a partner, and in this particular scenario, they're fellow chefs. (Minus the chef hats, the chef experience, and everything else.)

 

Ilkay ends up making a perfect ball and Shinji kisses him on the cheek.

 

He dedicates the next five minutes to shaping the most spherical ball of rice he, and apparently Shinji as well, has ever seen. Ilkay taps his mouth this time, a lone rice grain now hanging on his bottom lip. Shinji kisses him again, and they laugh when the grain falls comically atop Ilkay's perfect rice sphere.

 

The seaweed sticks to every patch of vinegar-tainted-skin and he finds himself eating half of the packet midway through the folding. Shinji on the other hand, does everything with grace, and Ilkay, yet again with the peculiar timing, gets emotional. The imagery is odd, Ilkay directing the most infatuated look on his face at his boyfriend who just so happens to be cupping seaweed around rice spheres. (“Rice _balls”_ , Shinji has to remind him though Ilkay chuckles.)

 

      “Is it weird that I'm falling more in love with you because you're so patient with seaweed?”  
      “It's perfectly normal,” Shinji replies and his gaze meets Ilkay's for a moment before they're back on their dinner-to-be.  
      “Good,” he murmurs in reply, sticky rice hands reaching up as they cup Shinji's cheeks.  
      “Wash your hands!”  
      “It's rice, it's probably good for your skin anyways--” and Shinji laughs at that so Ilkay kisses him. His body is twisted in an awkward fashion in hopes he doesn't squish the ball in his boyfriend's perfect little hands. Shinji places it to the side, and then there are sticky rice fingers on Ilkay's waist.  
      “Rice doesn't make t-shirt stains right,” Ilkay asks, mouth warm and hot against Shinji's.  
      “I don't know-- but your shirt is white,” another kiss, “and rice is white,” and another, “and nobody will notice.”  
      “Like a casual snack while I'm out?”  
      “Gross.” They laugh.

 

Shinji sets the table as Ilkay washes the last bit of rice on his forearms and neck. (How they got there, he's not entirely sure.) There're no utensils, just two bowls of perfect rice balls, and couch seats that have sunken lower than the rest. The both of them have a favourite spot, and the best part is, their favourite spots are right beside each other.

 

Ilkay thinks chances are, their favourite spots are their favourites because they're right beside each other. A sappy thought, but a nice and highly plausible one nevertheless.

 

They put a movie on, a German one that Ilkay hasn't seen and Shinji definitely hasn't. They don't bother to check the plot because at this point everything is background noise and there is nothing here but Ilkay, Shinji, and their rice balls. (Spheres, balls, toh-may-toh, toh-mah-to.)

 

They devour the balls.

 

Ilkay makes five different sexual innuendos, and Shinji almost chokes. It takes a bitten knuckle and a lot of good will for Ilkay to stop himself from making an innuendo about that.

 

      “You've graduated, you're now an honorary true appreciator of Japanese Cuisine,” Shinji tells him with a proud smile on his charming face.  
      “Thank you. I prepared a speech for this moment,” Ilkay clears his throat. “I want to thank my family for everything-- just everything. Ivan as well for being there when I tried uni for the first time. I haven't conquered uni just yet, but I'll keep trying. And lastly, I'd like to thank Shinji, my boyfriend, my partner-in-crime, my onigili? Onigiri? Onigiri-making lover, and my bedrock, not only because he rocks my bed,” Shinji tosses a paper napkin into Ilkay's face, “but also because he keeps me grounded. I always have somewhere to turn to because of Shinji. I'm always at home when I'm with Shinji.”  
      “You're embarrassing me—” and it's obvious by the way his boyfriend reddens, the tips of his ears about to burst into flames. Ilkay chuckles, wraps Shinji up by pulling his long-time friend and freckled wonder against his chest before nestling his nose atop Shinji's post-shower hair. It's soft and smells of citrus.  
      “I like you very, very, very much.”  
      “I like you more,” Shinji retorts, muffled into Ilkay's rice-stained shirt. Ilkay hugs him tighter, jokingly suffocating his boyfriend into his pecs.  
      “No, nobody likes anyone more-- we like each other equally.” Shinji calls for a truce with flailing hands and when Ilkay lets go, they wrestle until the leftover rice is dry and practically glued to the bowls.

 

They spend an hour cleaning up, 30 minutes to scrub at the grains, 30 minutes to dry and wipe and mop, and Ilkay is reckless with the dishsoap again, and Shinji stains Ilkay's tee with vinegar, but it's okay.

 

It's perfect.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written in forever but here's some quick Gundogawa fluff because I want to close this 10 chapter drabble as soon as I can...! Thanks for all the kudos and comments! xo


	10. it's 700 degrees in here: Nuri/Miki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nuri questions what it means to love a boy. (in which they’re still footballers, but nuri is single.)

If he squints, if he properly narrows his vision and blocks out some of the light on Miki's face, the run of slow grown facial hair along Miki's chin, if he squeezes and blurs everything in front of him well enough, it's easy to forget. It's easier to forget that he's got his fingers on male hips and that his heart races at the sight of a man, a very charming and funny man.

 

It's guilt that he feels. Anxiety, confusion, and fear too, but it's the guilt that makes Nuri second guess spending an extra night. (Though he always does.) Even when he's being told a joke, laughing at the way Miki reacts to a stupid video that shouldn't be as funny as it is to him, the harrowing reminder that he might just be committing the most unforgiveable of sins, flies in. More than that, he recognizes it, accepts that it most likely isn't okay (and will never be okay), and still continues to fall. His stomach still flips when Miki kisses his neck, and his pupils still dilate when he wakes to Miki's sleeping face.

 

Nuri still tells Miki he loves him back, and worst of all, he means it.

 

~

 

It's Sunday when he brings it up. A month into this blessing-and-a-curse arrangement, and he lets himself spill in the later hours of the night. Miki has his ears plugged into an hour-long podcast on litigation and arbitration, and Nuri's wide awake.

 

He shifts to his side, and the movement on the bed stirs Miki to meet his eyes. Nuri pulls an earbud off, much to Miki's obvious irritation. (He softens quickly as Nuri's nerves show just as clearly.)

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

Nuri watches the odd beauty of Miki's chest turning to face him, eyes the visible muscle and sharp bone structure of the Armenian. “Okay.”

 

“Do you think I'm a bad person--”

 

“--No,” Miki cuts, “but continue.”

 

“...Do you think I'm a bad person for loving you as much as I do, and as a result, committing an unforgiveable sin, or for seeing this as a sin in the first place?” Nuri whispers, fearful that the walls are listening, painfully sure that the heavens will hear.

 

Miki's expression is unreadable, and it only bumps Nuri's anxiety up twofold. There's a pause, silence, and the very faint light of the moon on Miki's cheek.

 

“Kiss me.”

 

It isn't the answer nor the reaction Nuri expects, but with only a beat of hesitance, he complies. He shifts forward, and meets Miki halfway. And again, there's the stomach flip, the dilated pupils, the goosebumps, the skip of a heartbeat, the dangerous breakdown and repair of his body, the thousands of sparks that send joyful and wanting signals to his head, everything hitting with perfect accuracy like a deadly symphony.

 

Miki pulls back first, visibly reluctant to do so, and flustered by the way he blinks a good ten times before he's calm and coherent again.

 

“I don't know about you, but there was nothing bad about that.”

 

He almost hates the look on Miki's face, hates how serious and vulnerable his eyes are. He looks desperate to be proven right-- and he _is_ right. Nuri knows that Miki means to say more than he does, he insinuates Nuri's innocence, carries 'I love you and that's beautiful,' over to him with utmost care, and with the most subtle of smiles and the most gentle of caresses.

 

Miki's palm is hot on his cheek.

 

“I love you too,” he says, out loud and clear for all to listen. ('Hear me love and hear my declaration, hear these words spill from my lips for years to come, for this loyalty and romance cannot be condemned.') Miki's breath is cut short, and although he tries a smug look and teases the situation with a tug on Nuri's ear, it's a big thing.

 

“Kiss me again.”

 

And Nuri does with open eyes.

 


End file.
